One Wave Short Of A Shipwreck
by Wyndi
Summary: Being the new guy in the company isn’t always a good thing.


**Content:** Mind games, hints of m/m slash (depending on how your mind works).

**Disclaimer:** I own **NO ONE** depicted in these fics. I am not endorsed by any person, corporation, federation, promotion, etc., nor do I receive any monies for writing sick and twisted tales of their imagined goings-on. Vaguely inspired by a quick scene from the movie "The Believer." Title from "I'm Going Slightly Mad" by Queen. Lyrics, quotations, etc. used without permission. No infringement or disrespect to the various artisans is intended, so please don't sue me.

* * *

_I do not know which to prefer, _

_The beauty of inflections _

_Or the beauty of innuendoes  
_  
- Wallace Stevens (Thirteen Ways of Looking at a Blackbird)

* * *

The young man sat on the cold, hard bench, fidgeting back and forth in a futile effort to get comfortable. He glanced down once again at the open book in his hands. Where had he left off? He didn't recognize the paragraph his thumb was on, but that didn't really signify. Were he back at school being given a quiz on what he'd read of the book thus far, he'd fail it miserably, so little attention had he paid to the actual text. Life had been like that for him lately. Almost as if he were a ship adrift at sea, content to let the tide of events carry him to whatever destination God or whoever had in mind for him.  
  
But today was supposed to be different, a last-ditch effort to try to regain some sense of control over his life. He was on his way to a new company, in a sense. A new beginning, another chance to try to make an impact rather than be lost among the countless jobbers of the business. He stared down at his book, not really seeing the words, thinking about all the things he'd heard about what Eastern Championship Wrestling had been transformed into. Innovative. Cutting edge. Daring. Memorable.  
  
He sighed out loud, running that last word over and over again in his head. That's all he'd ever wanted. To be remembered. His professional debut had come early, but had not brought the immediate success that the starry- eyed young man had envisioned. He'd had to content himself with working the indy circuit like so many others before him, still searching for a company to call home.  
  
He was distracted from his thoughts by the South Philly train lurching to a halt at the next stop. He glanced up briefly to see how close he was to his destination, noting that he had barely a quarter of an hour to go. He'd lowered his head once more, still trying to focus on his book, when he became aware of another person standing near him, all the bench seats having been claimed. No big deal. The trains got crowded late in the afternoon. He furrowed his brow, trying to force himself to make it through one entire sentence when he became aware that this newest passenger had moved even closer. He glanced up angrily from his book and got no farther than the intruder's legs.  
  
Dirty combat boots, unlaced and falling apart. Held together by duct tape, mud, and God knows what else. Ragged pants that probably hadn't seen a wash in the last ten years, barely recognizable as blue jeans for all the holes, frayed patches, and stains. A ratty flannel shirt was tied around the man's waist. This new passenger was definitely male. Even if the young man's eyes had been closed, he would have known instinctively, so heady was the musky aroma that emanated from his pores, an almost tangible odor that spoke of masculine arrogance.  
  
The young man ducked his head down again, not wanting to risk angering the stranger by continuing to stare. A placid smile, a lack of eye contact, and the pushy man would eventually move. And he did. He narrowed the distance between them until the stranger's scuffed and muddy boots were wedged up against the young man's sneakers. Any attempts to move away at this point were futile, as the young man was firmly sandwiched between the stranger and the wall. His hands gripped his book tightly in an effort not to show how uncomfortable the other man was making him. He still hadn't looked up.  
  
A heavy boot slowly pressed down on top of one of the young man's sneakers, bearing down with undeniable strength. A sharp intake of break at the sudden pain was his only reaction. The stranger's leg was brushing up against his book now, and the young man tried not to think about the how little fabric and material actually separated him from the domineering bully. He fidgeted slightly, trying to work his shoe out from under the other man's boot, but it was as if someone had set a fifty-pound weight on top of his foot.  
  
The train gave another lurch and the young man thanked all that was holy that he'd reached his stop. Without a single look at his oppressor, he grabbed his duffel bag and climbed awkwardly to his feet, stumbling slightly as the stranger finally lifted his boot and freed the young man. He hopped down to the pavement and assumed a brisk pace, wanting to put as much distance between him and the detestable man as he possibly could.  
  
After a few short blocks, he turned on Ritner Avenue and once again set foot in the Bingo Hall that had been serving as a wrestling arena for the past two years. Only now, things would be different. This was his fresh start. His new beginning. His clean slate. He could be anyone he wanted to be here.  
  
The boys were already assembled for their pre-show meeting and the young man was introduced around by the commissioner. It was basically the same crowd as before, with a few new additions, as Tod Gordon pointed out. Some people would end up with new tag partners, some would now be singles competitors, but most importantly, they would give 110% and they would give the fans something they'd never seen before. It was time to shake up the wrestling world.  
  
After the meeting ended and the boys began to discuss the night's events, the front door banged open. The young man was engaged in conversation with Paul E. about the reason behind re-naming the federation, so he didn't even look up. Paul E. frowned at the latecomer over the young man's shoulder. "What's the matter? Too good to show up on time like everyone else?" He let out a disgusted snort and focused his attention back on the conversation at hand.  
  
The late arrival made no response, and the young man persisted in his questions about the night's match, who his opponent was supposed to be, and what time he was going on. Paul E. cut him off with a quick wave, jerking his head to the side to indicate the tardy employee. "He just got here." He put a comradely arm around the young man's shoulders, turning him around to face the man he'd indicated.  
  
As if all the blood in his veins had suddenly turned to ice, the young man shivered as he took in the appearance of the man he was supposed to face that night. Dirty combat boots, ripped and torn blue jeans, flannel shirt tied around his waist.  
  
"Stevie, I'd like you to meet Raven."


End file.
